The White Tower
by are gebideth
Summary: Takes place before the events of LOTR - when Aragorn visits Minas Tirith with Gandalf. Speculation on the relationship he might have had with young Faramir, the pupil of Gandalf. R AF coming soon. PLEASE RR!
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or the scenery of Lord of the Rings; the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien does. Also, this story may contain male on male action in later chapters (ifI'm in that kind of mood) so beware.

He winced at the touch of the strange hand on his shoulder; concentration on the leather bound folio at his desk had sealed him off from the reality of all around him. Quickly he shut the heavy leaves of the book and spun around in his chair to face the intruder who had shattered the peace of his precious afternoon.

"I am sorry, Faramir, I did not mean to startle you," the cloaked man before him said, unhappily aware of his intrusion. Faramir, for his part, simply stared at the dusty, olive-bronzed face before him. Hours alone, lost in the ancient texts of Gondor's history, were slow to settle, and he blinked unceremoniously before finally responding.

"You did no such thing . . ." he paused, realizing he did not recognize the man, and tried to steer his mind in the direction of an end to his pitifully unfinished sentence.

"Aragorn is my name," responded the man, realizing that in addressing the second son of the Steward, he had forgotten all common courtesy. Laughing softly, the laugh of one beyond the years of his appearance Faramir thought, he remarked, "my apologies, it has been a long road that I have travelled and lonely. I seem to have left all decency behind". Faramir felt an instant warmth towards this uncouth intruder, whose stark and ragged appearance only vaguely cloaked a well of easy kindness. _So unlike the men of Gondor_, he thought, _so unlike my father._ Why his thoughts had drifted to Denethor, he could not say; too much study of lineage and kingship perhaps; the man's easy demeanor came as a sharp and welcome contrast to the stony glory of his heritage and home. Yet he found more in the gaze of this stranger than simply a kind nature. Faramir's thoughts rippled, _too much time spent in books, I am now hallucinating the glory of the kings of old before my own eyes; willing into life that which I have sought in print._ This much he was sure of, he liked this Aragorn, whoever he might be.

"No, no. No discourtesy done, my friend. You will not find me as strict in the rules of the court as my noble father," he responded, eager to return the charm of the older man.

"Ah, good. Well met then, Faramir. But as to the reason for my interruption – I traveled here with Mithrandir, whom you know"

"Mithrandir? He has returned at last, then" Faramir exclaimed, unable to contain his joy at the chance to reunite with the Wizard who had inspired and encouraged his studies, seeing beyond the meager place Denethor had designated for his second son. Aragorn laughed again, amused by the young man's excitement,

"Yes, and he has sent me to ask that you come to see him at your leisure. I wished to make the acquaintance of one who shared my interest in the old stories, so I, for the moment, have accepted the role of messenger."

"Gladly will I come; it has been long indeed since the White Tower has seen Mithrandir. I myself was hardly grown to manhood," Faramir remarked happily as he rose from his studies to follow Aragorn. As he did, Aragorn managed a glance at the title of the large folio on the desk. In golden elvish letters it said, _Beren and Luthien_. _Ah_, thought Aragorn, _the boy is truly gifted, to be reading such a work so young_. Eyes flicking back to the face of Faramir, it was with difficulty that Aragorn forced back a sudden revelation: the boy was beautiful. Living among Elves for so many years, he had grown accustomed to seeing beings whose loveliness emanated from every element of their lives and bodies. But to be presented with the same from a fellow man, Aragorn chose to dismiss it, though not without difficulty.

Together they left the round study; Faramir's untried boots clicking on the white marble, Aragorn's worn pair thudding in quiet rhythm.


	2. a silent conversation

so, this story is going a bit slowly at the moment, but i feel like i need to really get into the characters before things can get good (and by that i mean hot). please read and review - thanks so much to my one reviewer for the last chapter - you made me want to keep going with this one!

and no, these dudes don't belong to me. tolkien keeps them in a closet for special occasions.

The two men wound their way slowly down the blanched marble streets of Minas Tirith. As with all first meetings, Faramir was painfully aware of the pauses in conversation that crept in as he fumbled for thoughts, words of friendship, anything at all he could offer to this clearly older and wise-hearted man. He silently cursed himself for his awkward, introspective nature, remembering the words of his father who often admonished his inability to excel in the language of the court. Faramir wished desperately that he had his brother's charm, his brother's full-bodied ease. He did not need to remember Denethor to know that side by side with Boromir, he always faded into the background, a blend with the effigies and carvings of the White Hall. Following him in everything, succeeding in nothing, Faramir had since birth believed in the truth of his place as the second son.

Only Mithrandir had shown any interest in him, apart from what was acceptable and seemly in court behavior. The Grey Pilgrim, it seemed, had singled him out from the moment he first arrived and saw the young boy who stood half out of the light, a footstep or so behind his brother, who for the occasion wore the uniform of the Guards of the Citadel. After his audience with Denethor, Mithrandir had cocked his head slightly in the deepening pause and turned his gaze towards Faramir, little more than a child. Faramir remembered a sudden fear, a shame growing over him as he tried to avoid the sharp look of the old man. The gaze passed on; Faramir had followed Boromir outside into the courtyard, when the wizard had come up swiftly behind him. He asked, simply, if he enjoyed holding court.

_I had no response, nothing,_ Faramir remembered, _just as I have none now. There is nothing in all the courtly rules to teach an honest answer to a simple question. And still I have not learned; there is nothing in all the books to teach me grace, teach me life. Why, _he grumbled inwardly, _why, why do I flee to my studies, to my damned library with every question and every fear?_ He shot a quick glance towards Aragorn on his left, who was pacing easily down the street, eyes wide to the glory of the white walls as though he had never seen a tower before. His head spun from side to side as he took in the full scope of Gondor's capitol; he smiled to himself in wonder without a care for the foolishness of such blatant awe. _And yet so regal; none of the customs, none of the manners. . . how?_ Faramir's thoughts, especially of himself, sank lower with the sun; lower each step as his esteem of Aragorn, the unknown man with easy steps and a wry, friendly laugh, shot higher and higher, a pitch flare at sunset.

Alongside Faramir's self-wrath Aragorn had momentarily lost himself in contemplation of the beautiful city that surrounded his field of vision. As the sun dropped across the wide-reaching plain, he smiled in Faramir's direction; the joy at his visit to Gondor, though he remained unnamed as Isildur's heir, emanated in all directions. And yet when he turned towards the young man he again was struck from his reverie by the sight of him. Faramir was not looking his way, rather, his clear eyes were fixed upon a point just before his face, and the creases round his eyes betrayed a deep pain, a conflict washed over his entire being.

_What could he possibly have on his mind_, Aragorn wondered, _that could upset him so on such a beautiful evening?_ Immediately after the thought had formed, Aragorn wanted to kick himself for his insensitivity. Had he not also wandered in silence, unable to voice any of the thoughts that crowded his scull night and day? _And he is so young, it is easy to forget that,_ Aragorn realized, because though he had only known Faramir a few short minutes, the force of spirit which had struck him earlier masked his youth with the ageless cloak of a wisdom unaware of its own existence. _These troubles, the last struggles of the birth of a great soul . . . _Aragorn chuckled to himself quietly, mocking his little attempt at poetry.

For Faramir was not the only one unable to face the eyes of certain facts. The laugh that the young Steward's son found so appealing was known, only to a few, as the secret King's remedy for his own fear of attachment. Perhaps one who has lost and who, mortal, grew in the halls of the unchanging folk, as Aragorn did, could understand. But with great feeling he likewise felt great pain at the loss that would follow. Doomed to mortality, he dispelled the curse with a laugh and, though he himself knew not why, walked a step farther from the second son of the Steward.


End file.
